


I Was Livin' For The Hope Of It All (For The Hope Of It All)

by writeyourheart



Series: love you to the moon and to saturn [2]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Post-Season/Series 03, Summer Fluff, based of taylors new album folklore ofc, kinda sad cause el is grieving, literally just a jumble of summer thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:15:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25758697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeyourheart/pseuds/writeyourheart
Summary: She couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face, ducking her head forward as she loosely giggled.“I like that sound,” He whispered. His voice melted within the August air and pleated within the wind.El and Mike spend an afternoon settled within the shade in the August of 1985.
Relationships: Eleven | Jane Hopper/Mike Wheeler
Series: love you to the moon and to saturn [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2012812
Comments: 15
Kudos: 80





	I Was Livin' For The Hope Of It All (For The Hope Of It All)

But I can see us lost in the memory  
August slipped away into a moment in time

-Taylor Swift.

The blades of grass that coursed through El’s fingers were rough and dry, and they poked and probed uncomfortably against her skin — but, still, they felt cool by her hands — a patch hidden from underneath the shade of a large, splintered Oaktree at the quaint park on Maple Street. It was somewhat crooked, and the leaves that clung to branches were not the greenest she’d ever seen.

Not that she’d ever seen many. Not enough to compare it to. Never as many as her friends could.

But she liked it, nonetheless. It hung over her head and offered her shelter from the sunlight that bled against Hawkins without a sliver of remorse, turning everything flame-like and leaving everyone scorched.

“What’re you digging for?” She shifted her head to stare at Mike from where he was pressed, face-down against a bright yellow picnic blanket he’d stolen from his mother; there were white and turquoise flowers dotted against the material, stems webbing around one another, and El couldn’t quite seem to figure out where each flower seemed to begin or end.

“Not digging,” she said simply, borrowing her back further against the tough tree bark and pinching her fingers around a tall, skinny blade of grass until it came free from the earth and sat within her open palm. She eyed it intently; the way it curled in her hand, thin and weightless. There was nothing special about it, but she found herself doing _this_ a lot lately. Staring. Revelling.

She couldn’t help but wonder if it was because she hadn’t ever gotten to witness enough of life before the last two years, or because she was afraid it would be stolen from her again.

Like it had from Hopper.

Maybe. She settled for both as answer.

“Nice piece of grass,” Mike suddenly said. She wondered when he’d moved next to her, his back against the trunk of the tree, his arm pressed against hers. His skin was warm on hers — too warm for the August heat that encompassed them — but now that she’d felt it, she didn’t think she could bear the coolness that would replace her sense if he moved away.

She ripped her eyes away from her hands to watch as Mike dug his fingers into the ground below them, pulling out a blade of his own. It was shorter, and fatter, and he held it between his index and middle finger like it were a cigarette.

“Mine is cooler, though." He grinned widely, wagging it around and tickling it gently against her shoulder. She couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face, ducking her head forward as she loosely giggled.

“I like that sound,” He whispered. His voice melted within the August air and pleated within the wind. She turned to stare at him. Since that somber day in July — the one that changed _everything_ — she found that staring at Mike was different than it used to be. (Staring at everyone, really.)

Some days, staring at him felt necessary. Like she couldn’t breathe unless he was next to her, in plain sight — in plain touch.

But there were other kinds of days now, too — the crueler kind that would make her wonder _why_ she was who she was, _why_ she had what she had, _why_ she’d lost what she’d lost, whether or not she was worth all of it — good or bad or everything that came in between. Those were the days where she couldn’t find it in herself to look him in the eye — where she felt like a burden he’d have to carry — something that would constantly prevent him from ever finding any kind of peace.

Today, she couldn’t seem to decide what she needed. She knew he couldn’t stand those crueler days — he hated not being aware of how she was — not being next to her.

He never had to say it. She saw it. The way he looked; drained and sleepless after spending three days apart, when she’d be flooded with the sudden need to see him again. The way his hair was uncombed, and his clothes were wrinkly and the darkness under his eyes was prominent in contrast to the paleness of his skin.

She hated knowing that she’d made him that way.

But then again, she could make him like _this_. Smiley and goofy and golden from where the sunlight pooled in through gaps between the oak tree’s branches, painting over glimpses of his skin and brightening him entirely.

Love was weird. Everyone said so. But theirs was the strangest she’d ever seen. (And even if she didn’t have much to compare it to, she didn’t think she needed to.)

“Can’t believe I won’t be able to hear it every day, soon,” Mike mumbled, his hand dropping the blade of grass to reach out and grasp hers. Their fingers twined together like the flowers on Mrs. Wheeler’s picnic blanket, and suddenly, she felt like she could breathe.

“I’m sorry,” she said, because she was, and there wasn’t much else to say when it came to the inevitable day they’d be torn apart again.

“It’s not your fault.” Mike squeezed her hand.

“It is.”

Mike squeezed again, his eyes hardening and softening all at once — serious and lenient. “No, it isn’t.”

She clenched her jaw.

“You know it’s not,” Mike said. “I’ve told you it’s not.”

He had. A few nights ago, when she’d poured herself out to him and told him that everything was her fault; Hopper being lost, and Billy being gone, and Max being sad, and Lucas not knowing how to help her — Will being quiet, and Joyce crying at night, when she thinks they’re all asleep, and Jonathan having to figure out how to set up the moving arrangements on his own. Mike having nightmares that force him to call her on the Supercomm in the middle of the night, and Dustin never being able to fully trust a compass ever again.

Mike had listened, but he hadn’t agreed. He told her that she was hurting and that she was tired, and that when you were hurt and tired, you didn’t think straight.

“You saved us, El,” Mike had said, shielding her in his arms. “A million times.” She was too tired then to fuss, falling limp in his arms as she cried herself to sleep. Even now, in plain afternoon, this conversation felt too heavy to ever mutter aloud again.

“I’ll keep telling you until you believe it,” Mike declared. He picked another blade of grass from the ground and prodded it against her shoulder. “Even when you’re all the way in Illinois.”

She smirked. “At least you can’t poke me while I’m there.”

“Guess not,” Mike said, smiling. “But I can tell Will to do it, instead.”

“He would not!”

“He _totally_ would.”

They were both laughing after that. Mike doubling over and dragging El with him onto the blanket until they were laying on their backs, side by side, watching the leaves over them twinkle like stars as the wind blew through the town.

They were silent for a while, El busy tracing her thumb across the warmth of Mike’s sunburnt forearm. His arm was draped across her stomach, and she revelled in its steadiness, grounding her to the earth below them and keeping her tethered from the dark thoughts that swarmed her mind. Even if it was just for a little while.

“You will call, right?” She said suddenly.

Mike’s eyebrows knotted together. “Tonight?”

“No,” she began. “In Illinois.”

“Of course, I will.”

“Even when we’re at school?”

“I’ll call you every morning before that. And every afternoon when you’re back home, and right before we go to bed. And if you don’t want to talk sometimes, then we don’t have to.”

“I will,” she immediately stated. “Want to talk.”

“Are you sure?” He was smirking again, and she felt herself burning despite the shade of the leaves above them. “I’ll be really, _really_ annoying.”

“Good.” She wasn’t smiling back. There was a seriousness etched within her words. She didn’t think she could do any of it without hearing from him in Illinois.

Mike, noting her tone, (As always,) scooted towards her and pressed his lips against her temple. “I’m gonna miss you,” he said simply. “So much.”

“Me, too,” she whispered back.

“I know this summer was… _Hell._ But I don’t think I want it to be over if it means seeing you leave again.”

She understood. Everything was moving so fast, and the pain in her chest made most days seep together like spilt wine. Before she had realized it, July turned to August, and soon August would be September, and then she’d be in Illinois. Away from everyone. Away from Mike.

“But I know you’ll come back to visit,” He said clearly, rolling onto his side and pressing his face into the crook of her neck, his arm still tied around her stomach. The August heat was dizzying, but she couldn’t detach herself from him if she tried. “And one day we can figure out our lives for ourselves.”

“Figure out our lives?”

“Yeah, like….uh — our futures, y’know?” She could feel the way he whispered it against her skin, soft and timid and hesitant in the way he always seems to become when he gets anxious.

“You mean… we can choose,” She began. “To be together.”

His breathing grew heavier against her neck, and he nuzzled his nose further against her skin as his lips pressed a kiss to the hollow of her collarbone. “Yeah. Exactly. No going anywhere unless we want to.”

She isn’t sure if she’s ever heard of anything sweeter. She’d already been forced to take on the burden of responsibility most adults never have to face — but she’s never had to freedom of choice.

She thinks of being able to choose her home. And her town. And who she spends her days with, and what she chooses to do. She can lay in bed and away from the world, and she can walk the streets until her legs give out from underneath her.

She can spend every summer with Mike until they all cluster together from the business of it all — Until they aren’t sure which summer they spent camping under the stars, and which summer they drove to Chicago, and which summer they soaked themselves in lakes and oceans and rivers. Until they twine together like their clasped fingers — like the flowers on Mrs. Wheeler’s blanket. Never sure where they ended or where they began.

“I can’t wait,” was all El managed to say, her head buried in a million dreams that distantly lingered.

“Me, neither,” Mike whispered back.

The midday’s August heat swallowed them whole, but all El could feel were the Augusts to come.

**Author's Note:**

> hey! thanks for reading this and thank u to mayra aka @elhcppers on twt for the inspo!! hope this was somewhat what you wanted!


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